


(you're not) in on the joke

by therm0dynamics



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Mission Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, like later. once i figure out what i'm doing.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therm0dynamics/pseuds/therm0dynamics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which illya digs a little deeper into the enigma named napoleon solo, gets in way over his head, and this goddamn mission might <i>just</i> be the one that kills him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'm no cynic, you know i got a heart of gold

**Author's Note:**

> so BASICALLY this started out as a character study-ish thing and it got way out of hand and morphed into some super long rambly pretentious whatever because i’m convinced that napoleon’s job is really not as fun as everyone thinks it is and his smiley rainbows-and-unicorns act is secretly some kind of defense mechanism against whatever he’s really got going on in his brain. cause, you know. i love turning nice things real angsty.
> 
> shoutout to “you’re not in on the joke” by cobra starship for all the titles. shit might as well be songfic given my habit of naming stories after songs i listened to in high school out of a sense of thematic parallelism. i s2g.

The Vinciguerra affair is a good an introduction as any to the man called Napoleon Solo.

As they run like mad all over Rome, Illya watches Napoleon flirt and listens to him fuck and witnesses firsthand his determined charm offensive against any unfortunate man or woman within his blast radius - Gaby and himself and even Waverly not excepted. And at first, at least, Illya’s certain he has the American figured out.

He’s knows Napoleon’s type. Not personally, no; Russia would never produce anyone like Napoleon. This man could only have been born of bourgeois hedonism and depravity, and he checks every box and _then_ some with regards to what the KGB had warned Illya about Westerners. 

Napoleon, who pulls people in like moths to a flame and seduces as naturally as he draws breath and spins lies like Koschei the Deathless himself. Golden boy with a silver tongue. Sometimes when he promises an unsuspecting mark the moon and all the stars if _only_ they’d please do him this _one small favor_ , even Illya is tempted to believe his sincerity. Mesmerizing to watch, Illya is forced to admit, and stunningly deft, but vain and vapid at best. Absolutely insufferable at worst.

But then Napoleon pulls him out of the harbor, and then he gives him his father’s watch instead of a bullet to the chest, and _then_ he persuades him to turn against all he’d ever known and stood for to commit an act of treason that very likely saves the world. 

It's unexpected, and Illya senses he's miscalculated something, somewhere down the line. _Or maybe not._ What Napoleon had done was nothing more than what a good agent might have found tactically advisable under the circumstances. He thinks he might have done the same, were their positions reversed. No. He knows he would.

And in the string of missions following Rome, as they settle more comfortably into this strange arrangement that against all odds doesn’t right implode in Waverly’s face, that sort of behavior proves exception to the rule as Napoleon crashes headlong through Istanbul and Vienna and Morocco, flaunting his special brand of tradecraft. Helsinki after that. Then Algiers, then Prague. Never once losing his cocksure smile. It’s almost like he doesn't know how to do anything else.

\--

In London, on one of their rare rest days, Napoleon and Gaby drag him out and con him into seeing a _spy_ _film_ , of all things - like they don't have enough of that nonsense in real life - that manages to alternately trivialize and sensationalize all the wrong parts of their profession. Capitalist propaganda trash. Eisenstein would cry.

But he suffers it because Napoleon and Gaby are having the time of their lives. And it startles Illya every time, like a sucker punch to the gut, how _fond_ he really is of them. No other force in the universe could have persuaded him to be where he is right now but the two sitting shoulder-to-shoulder beside him in the empty theater. Unfortunately, mere sentiment doesn’t stop his partners from acting like children as they fight over the huge bucket of popcorn wedged between them, elbow each other excitedly at certain parts, and keep up a running commentary that occasionally dissolves into giggles.

He winds up paying more attention to them than he does to the movie. To Napoleon, in particular, and gradually Illya realizes he’s never really _looked_ at him before. He’s been paired with Gaby frequently in the past months, since they proved so successful together in Rome. But when he’s partnered with Napoleon, it’s because something’s on fire or impendingly so, metaphorically or otherwise, and there'd hardly been a quiet moment between them since they've started this venture.

In the chaos of a mission, Napoleon’s the figure by his side or the shadow guarding his back. The loud diversion to his silent action. Always there, to be trusted if not always tolerated, never something to observe but out of the corner of his eye.

Now that Napoleon’s the distracted one for once, Illya can look his fill. 

Napoleon's dressed down today - meaning, he’d forgone his usual vest and tie and left the top two buttons of his shirt undone - and he hadn't bothered to meticulously style his hair, so it falls in waves and strands across his face. It makes him look years younger. And now that he’s not carrying the weight of saving the world on his shoulders, the sparkling mischief in his eyes has a warmth to it Illya’s never seen before, the poise of his body looser and less precise, his usual slick grin replaced by genuine joy.

It’s like the flickering shadows cast over him by the projector strips him of some façade, revealing something softer and more human underneath. This is as _real_ as Illya’s ever seen him, in the dark and empty theater where he thinks nobody’s looking at him. 

And then Napoleon throws his head back, laughing at what's happening on screen, or maybe it's something Gaby says. And it's so open and honest - the dreamlike light of the film playing over the line of his throat, the curve of his jaw - that it steals Illya’s breath. Something heavy, almost painful, settles in his chest, and he glances away because suddenly he can’t stand to look. But his gaze drifts back again almost immediately, because how _could_ he resist something like that.

The moment’s ruined, of course, when Napoleon catches him staring and lobs a handful of popcorn in his face for his trouble. And that liquid quicksilver smile’s back on Napoleon’s face, that hard shine’s back in his eyes - and the sheer _insincerity_ of it grates on Illya like it’s never had before. The ache in his chest returns. He can’t name it, and it frustrates him. Maybe even scares him a little.

The movie draws to its noisy, insipid conclusion not _nearly_ soon enough and they all emerge back into the bright autumn afternoon. Napoleon and Gaby walk on ahead as they parrot back the dialogue.

“Do you expect me to talk?” Napoleon says, putting on an overblown British accent.

“No, I expect you to _die!_ ” Gaby replies, just as theatrically, and the two of them start cackling uncontrollably again.

As they cross the street, Napoleon offers his arm to Gaby, who accepts the gesture with a prim curtsy, and they continue on like that, arm-in-arm. Somewhere along the way Napoleon drapes his jacket around Gaby’s shoulders, shielding her from the snapping breeze. They make such a believable and beautiful young couple that an old lady waiting at a bus stop coos and beams lovingly at them, then looks sidelong at Illya with a knowing twinkle in her eye. He must seem like the stern fatherly chaperone of the group, out to ruin their fun.

Illya suddenly wonders if Napoleon’s ever had a lover, anyone beyond a quick dirty fuck in the nearest closet with whoever he could pull from his immediate surroundings. Someone he’d woken up to day after day, someone he’d gone walking hand-in-hand with down by the river or curled up reading with by the fire - no, that didn’t really seem his style. Maybe someone he’d taken out for a late night in the city. _That’s_ more his scene. An expensive restaurant, a jazz bar, an easy morning after of languorous sex, the both of them still half-asleep, tangled in the sheets -

Illya feels himself flush. It’s justified professional curiosity, he tells himself. Especially since, in the past months, Napoleon’s wheedled a wealth of personal information out of him, leaving a hanging imbalance of informational exchange between them. Knowledge is power in this line of work, after all. 

Well, if Napoleon had ever had any of ... _that_... in his life, he’d never mentioned it. Not that they openly talk about their personal histories - that minefield is an implicitly acknowledged DMZ between the three of them. But Napoleon, the egomaniac, is the one who never stops bragging about himself. And _that_ is hardly anything to be ashamed of, especially compared to being an ex-KGB defector with a traitor father and a whore mother.

 _Maybe it’d been a man, not a woman_ , Illya’s mind supplies out of nowhere, _and that’s why he’s reluctant to say something._

But no, he can hardly imagine Napoleon being so discriminating about something like gender when it comes to _that_. Illya knows all too well, from many hours spent banging his head against the table trying to hash out mission strategy with him, that Napoleon sees generalities, not specifics. Pleasure is pleasure, regardless of who’s on the giving or receiving end. Wouldn’t make a difference to him. 

 _And would Napoleon be giving or receiving in that case_ , his treacherous mind asks, _would he turn his seductiveness into submission or his confidence into dominance?_ And Illya’s stomach twists and he drops the line of thought like it’s physically burnt him.

They’ve ended up by a pond in a park, beneath trees bleeding red into their leaves. Gaby’s feeding a gaggle of ducks with their leftover popcorn - certainly bad for them, but both Gaby and the waterfowl look so cheerful he refrains from saying something - and Napoleon’s skipping rocks across the water. It looks like a scene out of a movie. A proper movie. One of those historical dramas that he likes to watch on occasion, not that he’d ever admit it. His cinematically tasteless partners don’t need any more fodder for mockery. 

 _Napoleon would have been a great actor if he hadn’t been a thief_ , is Illya’s next thought. He certainly has the looks for it, that easy charisma. _No._ _He’d have been a great actor_ because _he’s a great thief._

Because Napoleon has an incredible ability to steal, and not just any trinket that catches his fleeting attention, but _mannerisms_ as well. An idiosyncratic laugh off that café owner in Bruges, the stutter from the lobby girl in Vienna, the swagger of that Lisboan fisherman who’d lent them his boat. He could snatch an accent in the blink of an eye, pick up and discard affectations at will, shed personalities as easily as he changed his bespoke suits. He’d be exactly what someone expected him to be for as long as he needed to be.

But beyond that?

Illya actually has no idea.

And Napoleon’s so good, it’d taken Illya this long to notice.

But he hardly has time to reflect on this groundbreaking realization, because not two days later, he and Napoleon are sent to Barcelona.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was really amused while writing this part because the idea that a bunch of spies would go watch and make fun of spy films in their free time is somehow really, really hilarious to me. literally forget this sappy angsty nonsense b.s. like someone just give me a movie night story. metahumor forever.
> 
> things will actually happen next chapter, probably. onward!


	2. tongue in cheek

Barcelona suits Napoleon perfectly. And why wouldn’t it, since it’s everything he loves all in one place - this bustling, perennially sunny city by the sea full of song and dance and beautiful people and excellent food and wine. Even Illya, upon arrival at their hotel on the waterfront, almost forgets for a second they’re here on a mission.

But while Napoleon _continues_ to forget that fact as he prances around the suite, a bottle of Rioja already half-finished on the counter and something sizzling on the stove, Illya settles on the ground in front of the couch and starts organizing the dossiers on the coffee table. Alphabetical order, chronologically cross-referenced.

It’s just them this time. The day before, Gaby had been sent off to spearhead a joint UNCLE-DST op in Paris. Going well, last Illya and Napoleon heard when they called before departing for Spain. Well enough that she’d dismissed Illya’s hint that they’d be just across the border if anything serious arose. 

“See if you can’t steal a badge off one of the Directorate guys for me, I don’t have one of those yet,” Napoleon had said, then defensively, off Illya’s stare, “what, it’s better than collecting postcards.” Illya had done all he could not to smile at that. Somewhere down the line, God help him, the man had become _amusing_ rather than annoying.

Files sorted, Illya lays out a sheet of newspaper on the floor and lines up his weapons, stripping and cleaning them each in turn. It’s slow, meditative work, and he loses himself in it, the feel of cold sleek metal passing beneath his hands, the sharp smell of solvent and gun oil. The satisfaction of order from chaos.

“We’ve only just gotten here, and you’re _already_ thinking of murder?” Napoleon asks on his way between the bedroom and the kitchen. “That’s a record, even for you. Talk about a one-track mind.”

“Always be prepared, Cowboy,” Illya responds. “That’s what KGB teaches you.”

“Just like the Girl Scouts, huh,” Napoleon says. “Did you wear a little red sash? Badges for every capitalist spy you caught? What kind of cookies did you sell?” As with most of Napoleon’s rapid-fire references, it goes far over Illya’s head, so he just ducks his head and ignores him. “This mission is supposed to be strictly ISR until Waverly’s say-so, and neither intelligence nor surveillance _nor_ reconnaissance require shooting people. You’re just here for backup in case things get nasty.”

“Perhaps. But things tend to get _nasty_ around you very quickly.”

“You know they do, babe,” Napoleon purrs, low and sensual, right in his ear. Illya flinches at the abrupt intrusion but watches, spellbound, as Napoleon holds his gaze with a lascivious stare, mouth parted slightly, tongue licking over the edge of his teeth - until he blinks and returns to his usual blithe, irreverent self. “How was that? Think dear Mikey will go for that?”

“Try harder,” Illya lies, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’d walked right into that one. Napoleon chuckles, not put out in the least, and returns to unpacking.

 _Dear Mikey_ , proper name Mikkel Falkstrom, is their target. A smuggler working for groups ranging from human traffickers in the Balkans to nationalist terrorist factions in Japan known for running anything and everything across the Iron Curtain - drugs, weapons, people, experimental technology, classified intel - given the right price. The respective intelligence organizations of every NATO country want him taken down with extreme prejudice, but he’s Swedish - so he claims - and any government attempting to breach Sweden’s legal neutrality to extradite one of their citizens is an international incident waiting to happen.

Enter UNCLE, small enough to fly under the radar and unencumbered by pesky things like geopolitical jurisdiction laws. Enter a trust fund playboy, son of an American oil tycoon looking to cut a deal under his father’s neglectful nose. Enter his Russian bodyguard which, Illya suspects, is just another convenient prop in this performance, another reassurance for Falkstrom as to where the American’s loyalties really lay. Exit stage left with Falkstrom’s cargo lists, ports of call, registered vessels, shipping routes, known contacts in all countries of operation, and - once NATO Council had enough to build a case against him - Falkstrom himself.

Falkstrom has three known weaknesses: gambling, a nasty cocaine addiction, and a preference for pretty brunette men. The plan is to cater to all three.

After finally settling in, Napoleon gets to work on his character in earnest. Mostly, it involves standing in front of the mirror in the living room and preening, or pacing around and muttering and gesturing to himself, trying on different behaviors for size. After awhile he starts laying out outfits on the four-poster bed - so _that’s_ why he’d brought five suitcases - and studying them with a critical eye.

Illya sneaks occasional looks at Napoleon - he can’t help his fascination, this is a part of the process he’s never seen before - under the pretense of rechecking his guns for the fifth time, then a sixth. His Walther, his Luger, his favorite Makarov. They’re fine. As they have been.

And slowly, as Barcelona's charming Mediterranean skyline shimmers gold, then burns red, then finally slips into shadow, Napoleon Solo disappears and Jackson Langley takes his place.

\--

Jackson Langley is a fucking _brat_.

He whines and pouts and sulks and speaks in an insipid quasi-Transatlantic drawl with an eternally vacant look in his wide eyes. Name-drops _daddy_ this and _daddy_ that as he slinks around the room like every joint in his body’s been slightly unscrewed. Drapes himself over various pieces of furniture like the half-dressed girls Illya’s seen in car commercials on American TV. His overall impression is distinctly trashy - lewd smile and wicked eyes, tousled hair, shirt cuffed to the elbows and unbuttoned to his chest, pants cut just a fraction too tight for decency. And with a hunch of his shoulders and a coy tilt of his head, “call me Jackie” Langley somehow occupies less physical space in the room than Napoleon does - _did_.

The transformation is incredible. Eerie, even. But after not even a quarter of an hour, Illya’s already itching to punch him in his pretty, vapid mouth.

Still, listening to Napoleon’s alter-ego prattle on proves to be the easiest part of his night when, after the better part of forty minutes, Napoleon mercifully breaks character and turns to him.

“Your turn.”

\--

If he thought Napoleon as Jackie Langley was a formidable test of his self-control, Napoleon as a teacher is _worse_. 

“No, look, you’re supposed to be some low-level Russian gangster I picked up off the streets out of the goodness of my heart. That stick the KGB’s inserted up your ass will give you away. You gotta loosen up a little, walk with some _swagger_. Try again.”

And for about the tenth time, Illya walks around the room, feeling like a show horse being put through its paces.

“Better, but - watch me.” Napoleon strides across the space with an exaggerated gait, chin up, a nasty sneer on his face. Illya is reminded of the older boys who gathered on the street corners of his childhood city, the ones that used to advance on him just like that, fists and sticks at the ready. And is startled, again, at the fluidity of Napoleon’s performance. “Like that.”

Illya swallows against the frustration rising in him threatening to distort into real anger. He hates this stupid charade, hates that he’s so incompetent at it. Hates, irrationally, that Napoleon’s being so patient with him. There’s an utter lack of condescension in his partner’s attitude that Illya doesn’t know how to respond to because he doesn’t know what’s _real_ about this man anymore. 

 _Not after I’ve seen what you can do_ , Illya wants to say.

“I’m not as good at playing pretend as you are, Cowboy,” he says instead. 

“You can’t think of it as playing pretend. To pull it off, you have to _believe_ the lie you’re selling,” Napoleon says, and then out of nowhere he’s right behind Illya, one hand on his shoulder and the other at the small of his back. Illya tenses up at the unexpected touch.

“What - ”

“Shh, relax. Work with me here, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, squeezing his shoulder gently. And by small increments Illya loosens up, gives in, gives himself over. “Walk.”

Napoleon’s hands press under his jaw, tipping his chin up, around his bicep, pulling his arms away from his body. Then pushing his shoulders down, sliding down his back to cant his hips out, molding him into some other being entirely as he guides him across the room. Napoleon’s hands are warm. Burning, almost, through the fabric of his shirt. Static crackles over his skin, shivering and bright, pure electricity concentrated into points that sear like fire where Napoleon’s fingertips linger. For some reason he suddenly can’t breathe.

It’s intense, heady. Magical. It’s the longest walk of Illya’s life. It’s not nearly long enough.

“Hey, I think you’ve got it,” Napoleon says when it’s over, and Illya yanks himself away, looking everywhere but at his partner. His heart’s hammering against his ribs and his hands are sweaty and there’s a tight, hot feeling in his stomach like the persistent burn of alcohol. He’s shaking a little, but not out of anger for _once_ in his life, out of - he doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks it might be _fear_ , fear of what this man is capable of _doing_ to him. It’s a wholly unfamiliar feeling. Dangerous like he can’t even describe. 

And he hates it. Hates this weakness. He doesn’t want it in him.

“So are we done?” Illya snaps. Napoleon sighs.

“I don’t see why you’re so against this.”

“Because it’s useless.”

“It’s really not. The CIA used to send me on these kinds of things alone. And I’m used to that,” Napoleon says. “But it’s different with two people. It’s harder. And I can’t - ”

“Are you implying,” Illya says, “that I’ll be a liability to the mission?” A flare of anger stabs through him, and he thinks bitterly, _good_. This is familiar ground now. He’d so much rather they fight like they always do about these things. Violence, at least, is pure and uncomplicated. It’s _comprehensible_.

“No! That’s not – _listen_ , Illya,” Napoleon says, rubbing his hand over his face. _He’s distressed_ , Illya notes with some surprise. “The first rule of a long con is to never, ever break character.” And he’s talking quietly but intently now, like this is vital information Illya needs to understand above all else. “I’m saying, no matter what happens, to me or to you, we don’t stop. We _can’t_. Do you understand me?”

“The mission comes first, I get it,” Illya hisses. The mission always comes first. As it had before in the KGB and as it does now in UNCLE, and Napoleon’s an even worse spy than he thought if he hadn’t noticed those words are practically tattooed onto Illya’s face. “What I don’t understand is the need for this … playacting.”

Napoleon tenses up and Illya laughs mirthlessly and prepares for a fight. But then just as quickly it passes, and looking Napoleon in the eyes is like looking up into a cloudless winter sky. Bright, empty, mercilessly cold. He smiles again, a slight quirk of the lips, and the mocking expression means everything and nothing at all.

Illya’s stomach churns. He’s mis-stepped somewhere because this isn’t what he wanted, not at _all_. He’d wanted shouting and wild punches and broken furniture and to slam Napoleon up against the wall and hold him down and lick the coppery taste of blood from his mouth - _what_ _?_ \- and the sudden, vivid image sparks in him like a scrap of flashpaper, lit and then burnt out so quickly again that it leaves him reeling.

“All the world’s a stage, Peril, so you better get used to it,” Napoleon says lightly, betraying nothing. “It’s not exactly Tolstoy, but I’m sure he’d agree. Get some rest. We’re meeting Falkstrom tomorrow for lunch.” Napoleon pats him on the shoulder, retreats to his bedroom, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

Illya’s left standing in the living room feeling like something of monumental importance had just happened, but he’d been too slow or too stupid to realize exactly what it was, and the moment’s passed him by already, and of course by now it’s too late to go back. It's always too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you wondering where this is going? cause SO AM I. stay tuned!


End file.
